Chelsie Christmas A-Z
by olehistorian
Summary: A series of A-Z Chelsie Christmas prompts inspired by Chelsie Fan. Not every letter will be covered but as many of them as possible will be. Carson and Hughes with other characters making appearances.
1. Advent

Advent – Preparations for Christmas

A/N: The first in a series of A-Z Chelsie Christmas prompts inspired by Chelsie Fan.

The servants' hall bustled with activity as the younger servants busily decorated the Christmas tree that Mr. Carson had reluctantly agreed to install. He always enjoyed the decorations upstairs and some of the festivities downstairs but never let himself get too carried away. He feared that the staff might not respect him if he really gave into his more cheerful side. Nevertheless, he was glad that Mrs. Hughes had convinced him to allow the youngsters the luxury of the tree and the additional decorations.

_"__Mr. Carson, could we? Please." Clara, one of the young housemaids asked timidly over over the top of her bowl of porridge. _

_Mr. Carson grunted gruffly in response. "We've never put a Christmas tree in the servants' hall and I don't see any reason to start now. The decorations that Mrs. Hughes has approved are quite enough."_

_"__Oh, I don't know Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes interjected. "I think that it might be nice to have a Christmas tree of our own in the Servants' Hall. It does not have to be a large tree. Just one to fit in the corner there," she indicated with her finger. Mr. Carson sighed heavily._

_"__Oh, all right, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson sighed deeply. He leaned in close to her "I'll have a couple of the lads cut one. But only after they have finished with their duties," he conceded with raised eyebrows. Giggles erupted from the opposite end of the table; the young maids nattering among themselves. Mr. Carson could have sworn that he heard on of them saying something about Mrs. Hughes being able to have her way with him. He glanced to Mrs. Hughes, who though looking into her bowl of porridge, had a demure but visible smile tugging at her lips. _

While Clara and Emily strung together paper garland to lace around the tree, Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter rummaged through a box of ornaments that the family no longer used. Andy and Tim, a hall boy, strung holly round. Even Daisy and Mrs. Patmore joined in on the festivities untangling a strand of fairy lights that Lady Gratham had donated for the occasion. Mrs. Hughes looked down the length of the table and taking a sip of her tea, smiled contentedly.

"Ahem," Mr. Carson cleared his throat. "You are shirking your duties Mrs. Hughes," he chided gently as he held out the wire frame for her inspection. "A penny for your thoughts."

She began to wrap the ivy around the wire frame that he had fashioned. "I had thought that all was lost when Anna was arrested, but she's home now and we are preparing for Christmas and the young ones are happy…"

"…and older ones too," he interrupted casting a glance toward Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter who were quietly chatting away, all tender smiles and gentle gestures.

"And older ones too," she echoed his words with a knowing look and brush of her hand to his cheek. The smile that she received in return caused her to blush but she didn't care; they were to be married after the New Year and she was so happy she felt as if she were floating.

As she worked, Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter decorated the tree. Daisy and Mrs. Patmore strung it with lights, though they argued over whether to start at the top or the bottom. Emily began playing Christmas carols at the piano and Mrs. Hughes could not help but to be swept up in the sentiment. As she continued to weave the holly, ivy, and a sprig of mistletoe onto the kissing bough, she found herself happily singing along.

After the staff trimmed the tree and the decorations were all hung and placed, Mrs. Patmore served sandwiches and a rather _special_ Christmas Eve beverage. Mr. Carson started to offer a speech on the ills of drinking too much, but the calming hand of Mrs. Hughes on his arm caused him pause. After a while, the staff began to disperse and only Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter were left with Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes in the servants' hall. Mr. Carson, then remembered that he had forgotten to hang one last decoration.

"Mrs. Hughes," she heard him call out to her. "Might I have a word?" She glanced to the doorway leading to the servants' corridor where she saw Mr. Carson stretched to his full height tacking the kissing bough to the top of the doorframe.

"Yes, Mr. Carson. How may I help," she asked seriously.

"Could you stand just there," he indicated. "I need to make sure that I am hanging this in the right spot."

She pulled her lip between her teeth to suppress a giggle; her eye, however, betrayed her. She moved beneath the bough. "Just here?" she asked innocently.

"Ah, yes," he replied as he pushed the tack into place and lowered himself down. "I think that is just about right." They were standing very close and for a moment, he worried what the others might think. However, they were to be married and what would a chaste kiss hurt? "If I didn't know any better I would think you deliberately left the making of the kissing bough to us," he murmured.

She smiled placed a hand on his chest. "You once said that I was a plotter," she teased.

"Well, thank goodness that you are," he murmured against her lips. "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes" he said as his lips caught hers.

Happy 25 Days of Chelsie….I'd love to know what you think if you are so inclined.


	2. Baking

Mr. Carson threw his pen down in exasperation and closed the wine ledger firmly. The sounds of clanging pots and pans and mutterings from the kitchens had driven him to the point of distraction. He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat to check the time. Half past eleven. _Who on earth is in the kitchen at this hou_r he grumbled to himself. He thought that he had heard Mrs. Patmore go up at least half an hour earlier and he had shooed all the staff to bed not long afterward. He rubbed his hand across his face and then he heard the clattering of another pan hitting the stone floor of the kitchen. Having heard enough, he pushed away from his desk and marched purposefully toward the kitchen.

Just about to scold the mischief-maker, Mr. Carson stood silent, a smile curling at his lips. The cause of all the noise stood covered in a dusting of flour from head to toe. Mixing bowls were scattered across the table and eggshells lay piled in shards. A whisky bottle open, pound cake sitting to the side, a bowl of raspberries. Some chocolate and vanilla. An open jar of her raspberry preserves. He watched as she stood, wearing one of Mrs. Patmore's aprons, in front of the stove whisking together something, muttering under her breath. Something about not scalding it _this_ time. He would have been content to watch her forever, but he was afraid to be caught out.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat loud enough so that she could hear but gently enough not to frighten her. When she turned to face him, he was met with the most wondrous sight. A floured handprint across her cheek and streak of it across her forehead; tendrils of hair having escaped the confines of her coiffure. Had she an idea of what she looked like, he had no doubt she would have been mortified but all he could picture was domestic happiness. "Can I help?"

Looking as if she were about to cry, she motioned him into the kitchen and pointed to an apron. "I wanted to make a surprise for Christmas luncheon," she confessed wearily. "It's been quite a long time since I've had the run of a kitchen on my own I'm afraid." She pulled the custard mixture from the burner and placed it onto the counter. "Can you fetch the ice?" she asked. Placing the top of the double boiler over the ice for the custard to cool, she turned her attention to the other ingredients of her dessert.

"Mrs. Hughes," he began "what is it that we are making?"

"Scottish whisky trifle, Mr. Carson," she answered. "I've not had one in quite a few years and I thought I'd make one. Could you stir the custard and when it has cooled put three tablespoons of whisky into it?" Mr. Carson complied with her instructions and together they worked happily completing Mrs. Hughes' recipe. Mrs. Hughes looked over to Mr. Carson in his apron, his sleeves rolled up, his tie long discarded, and his collar unfastened. He was smiling and laughing, she even thought that she heard him humming a little something. Something she had heard once before. _Dashing away with the smoothing iron…_ Their hands even touched, more than once, as they passed ingredients back and forth. They were easy with one another; his guard was down. For a moment, she let herself believe that the Abbey's kitchen was theirs. That they were preparing for their own, private Christmas Day luncheon. Perhaps they would be one day.

When Mrs. Hughes was satisfied with their creation and it did indeed look very beautiful in one of Mrs. Patmore's trifle bowls, they began to wash up. They decided that she would wash and he would dry and together they made quick work of all of the pots, pans, and dishes. She turned to her helper and gave him a word of thanks. "I don't know what I would have done without you, Mr. Carson," she smiled brilliantly and gave his arm a gentle squeeze.

"Get away with you," he murmured, his eyes darkening a bit.

"No, I mean it," she answered, worrying her lip. He could not help but to smile as he lifted the drying cloth to her face and gently began to wipe the flour from her cheek, her forehead. She looked confused but then realization struck her. She closed her eyes, embarrassed. "I should be cross with you….." She stopped when she felt his lips kiss the end of her nose. "…..for allowing me to look all…" she stopped once more as he brushed the loose tendrils of hair behind her ear. Suddenly she felt very warm and he was very close. Perhaps they had nipped into the whisky a bit too much as they were cooking.

"I missed a spot," he told her, voice low, seductive. He could almost hear her hard swallow.

"You did?" she managed.

"Um, hmm," he said as his lips touched hers. She tasted of flour and vanilla. Of whisky and raspberry jam. Of warmth and home and Christmas cheer.

**Thank you all for the Tumblr love, the reblogs, reviews, favorites, follows, etc. I appreciate them all. If you are so inclined, let me know what you think.**


	3. Children

**A/N: "Do you ever wish you'd gone another way? Worked in a shop or a factory? Had a wife or children?" Well, here is their other way. For this one, we are going a little AU. I hope that you enjoy. **

Christmas Eve, 1897

Elsie Carson hears the bell that hangs on the front door jingle one last time and the bolt turn as _he_ turns the key in the lock They have been busy, this Christmas Eve, as people are preparing for the holiday tomorrow, picking up last minute items. Wrapping paper, ribbons, and bows. Some candy sticks, biscuits, and tea. Tobacco and pipe cleaners. Notions. Odds and ends. She hears the heavy tread of her husband as he climbs the stairs to their quarters above the store. She knows that he is tired. His step is slow. She hears him sigh every now and then. His day has been long but she smiles. She is immensely proud of him. He has done well for himself. For them. He has two employees and a delivery boy. His village shop also serves as Downton's post office and she as the postmistress. They live comfortably, fashionably. Their home is tidy, she sees to that. Her training as a housemaid having not been wasted. She never regrets leaving the Abbey for him.

He toes his shoes off, picks them up, and places them near the door. He always keeps them polished to a mirror finish. A perfectionist, he dresses immaculately and is well groomed. She reaches up, the errant curl that refuses to stay in place falls to his forehead, she brushes it back. Gives him a welcoming kiss. Helps him off with his coat and hangs it on the coat tree nearby. "Your supper is in the oven. I'll get it," she says softly as he sits at the kitchen table.

"I hope that you didn't wait," he says kindly. She shakes her head. No. He sighs. "It's been a busy day. That Mrs. Patmore sent a footman down from the Abbey with a list a mile long. Last minute things that she needed for tomorrow," he remarks as she places his plate and a glass of beer in front of him. "Something about the housekeeper not ordering the right stores and self-raising flour." He hungrily tucks into his supper. Elsie is a fine cook and he always appreciates what she places in front of him.

"I don't miss the rows between those two, I'll tell you that," she laughs softly. "If I were housekeeper, I'd not tolerate any of her cheek."

"I dare say you wouldn't," he agrees, with a mouth full of food.

The house is warm, a fire roaring in the fireplace in the sitting room, the candlelight soft. Charles looks across the table at his wife and counts himself lucky. Wonders how he caught the fiery Scottish lass that had footmen and _that_ farmer buzzing about her skirts. His blood boils every time he thinks of Joe Burns (even after seven years of marriage). But there she sits, beautiful as the night he first saw her at the village dance, smiling at him.

"Donal, Catriona, and the children will be here for luncheon tomorrow," Elsie says matter of factly. "So much for peace and quiet." The words are out of her mouth before she realizes it and she wishes that she could take them back. Sees the look of hurt on his face though he tries to hide it. Charles often becomes melancholy at Christmas. He never mentions it; she does not push, as she is wont to do. She reaches across the table and takes his hand. Rubs her thumb across his knuckles. _I'm sorry._ She says with the gesture. He gives a little smile in answer. _It's all right. It's not your fault._

They've not spoken in some time about the little ones who have never been born. That they are getting on. He is forty-one and she is thirty-five and they long for the pitter-patter of little feet dancing through the house. Tiny, excited voices waking them before daybreak to tell them that Father Christmas visited while they were sleeping. That he left little Charlie a toy train or little Margaret a doll.

xxxxxx

Changed into their nightclothes, Elsie sits on the floor in the sitting room with wrapping paper and ribbon scattered round while Charles draws from his pipe and nurses the last bit of fine whisky; Donal has promised to gift him some when he arrives in the morning. "Goodness," Elsie exclaims, "I didn't realize that we had quite so many gifts for Moira and Fiona."

"You spoil them," Charles laughs easily. He thinks of how they would spoil girls of their own. "But, that's as it should be I suppose," he adds wistfully. Elsie looks up to him. He is a good uncle. Plays with the girls when they visit, lets them help with the store. Slips them candy sticks and biscuits when their parents are not looking. Elsie finishes with the last of the packages and places it under the tree but takes pause, picks another up, runs a hand across it, and makes her decision.

She moves toward her husband and he pulls her into his lap. When he grunts, she swats at his chest but cannot help to smile a bit. "What was that grunt for Mr. Carson?" she teases.

"Oh nothing," he lied. He does think that she might have put on a stone.

"I thought you might like to open this present tonight, before everyone gets here tomorrow."

He takes the box from her. It is not terribly heavy. His experience tells him that it might be a shirt or scarf something that she has made for him. She shifts so that he can open the box. He pulls the ribbon away, draping it playfully about her neck. The paper falls away easily and he opens the box, mystified.

He handles the contents of the box carefully, reverently, and then looks to his wife. She is worrying her lip, as she is wont to do when she is upset or worried. He notices the mist that covers her very blue eyes. He asks a question with his eyes. _Does this mean what I think it means?_ She nods. _Yes, darling. It does._

"When did you find the time?" he asks quietly.

"I think that we found the time together," she laughs through happy tears.

"That's not what I meant," he says leaning up to kiss her deeply. "I _meant_ when did you find the time to knit the little gown, the cap, and the booties? They're lovely."

She strokes his cheek, behind his ear. "A woman has her secrets."

"When might we expect…."

"…in the spring. Dr. Black thinks at the end of May," she finishes. "Happy Christmas, Charles."

"Happiest of Christmases, Elsie," he rejoices.

**We may revisit this little AU at some point in the future if ****_you_**** think that we should. Perhaps with a reading of Twas the Night Before Christmas? Let me know what you think if you are inclined. I appreciate all of the Tumblr love, reblogs, reviews, favorites, follows, etc. Happy Chelsie Christmas. **


	4. Dashing (Through The Snow)

A/N: Some Series 5 spoilers including my speculation on what Elsie was wrapping as a gift for Charles when she tells him to "Shut your eyes" in the new trailer.

"So you're ready then," he says more than asks as he watches her adjust her hat, placing the last of the pins in place. She glances up at his reflection in the mirror and smiles; she always smiles when he enters her sitting room. Her heart leaps a bit. She doesn't realize that his thunders in his chest so hard that he fears she might hear it. He reaches for her coat, ready to help her into it.

"As ready as I'll ever be," she teases gently. She walks over to him, allows him to slip her coat over her shoulders. She feels his hands ghost over her shoulders, her upper arms. She closes her eyes for a moment. He is a gentleman after all, she reminds herself. The lingering touch is nothing more than his helping her with her coat.

"You make it sound as if you are about to sign your life away, Mrs. Hughes," he says concerned. Perhaps she has changed her mind. Perhaps she no longer is confident of the success of their venture. She turns, buttons her coat, and then fetches her handbag.

"It is a rather big step buying a property together," she answers and then sees his face a little crestfallen. "But one I am glad to be taking, mind," she says reassuringly with a gentle hand on his arm. His face softens and a smile begins to emerge. She hasn't changed her mind. Hasn't gone off the idea or of him.

They make a few remarks to Mrs. Patmore before they leave. She gives them bits and pieces of advice on what to expect at the solicitor's office. It hasn't been that long ago that she purchased her cottage and set about to spruce it up. They thank her and Elsie hands her the chatelaine with jingling keys; asks her if she minds watching the house while they are out. She tells them to go, shoos them toward the back door. Tells them to take their time. To mind the snow that has fallen. As Mrs. Hughes turns her back, Mrs. Patmore gives a cheeky grin and a wink to Mr. Carson.

"What's this?" she asks in astonishment as they venture into the yard, the snow crunching under her feet.

"I would think you would know what snow is Mrs. Hughes," he answers with reserved delight. She returns his remark with a pointed glare. Yet he has surprised her, pleasantly and unexpectedly. His romantic heart laid bare before her. "This, Mrs. Hughes," he says as he takes her hand helping her into the carriage, "is a sleigh drawn by a very fine horse called Challenger. I know that you think me old fashioned but I thought that we might take advantage of the snow, but if you object…." She stills his sentence with a brilliant smile and a gentle pat of the seat next to her.

As they ride through the fields, around the curves, and by the lake, they chat happily about Christmas coming in two weeks, about the New Year, and the Servants' Ball. Charles secretly hopes to dance with her this time. He wants to be her first dance and her last. He thinks that he might ask Daisy to teach him some of the "new" dances so that he can impress Mrs. Hughes. Elsie is an excellent dancer. He often finds her watching the younger staff as they dance about in the servants' hall or out in the yard. He's caught her on occasion practicing a few steps in her sitting room. He's watched from just outside the door, a secret of his own.

Elsie is carrying her end of the conversation as they talk but she finds her mind wandering. She thinks to the gift that he saw her wrapping. The one that he almost saw before she told him to "Shut your eyes." Daft man. He did as he was told. Closed them. Covered them and even turned his head as he closed the door and backed into her sitting room. She wondered if he would think her gift too forward. Usually she gifts him a book or a pair of gloves. But this year, she takes a chance. A set of cuff links and tie bar. She had them engraved with his initials. The tie bar engraved with _To C.C. from E.H._ Should he wear it, and she knows that he will, their names together across his chest, near his heart for all to see. She blushes thinking of it. She is so consumed in thought that she hasn't realized that they have taken another path. One that does not lead to the cottage that they have agreed to purchase but to another instead.

"Whoa," Charles calls, halting the horse and sleigh. He looks to his companion, who is clearly puzzled.

"Why are we stopping here?" she asked.

"Mr. Norman telephoned a few days ago to let me know that this cottage is for sale," he begins cautiously. "I thought that we might give it a look before we sign the papers for the other. Just to be sure that we are purchasing the right one."

Elsie looks skeptical. The cottage looks much smaller than the one that they have agreed upon. Much too small to be a bed and breakfast. But she complies and he seems pleased. Charles turns the key in the lock, holds the door open for her. The cottage is very nice, a cozy sitting room, a small but well-appointed kitchen, a nice _indoor_ bathroom. From Charles's descriptions of the place, Elsie is beginning to get the distinct impression that he has seen this cottage before. Then timidly, he shows her down the corridor to the bedroom. The only bedroom.

Silence hangs in the air like a heavy fog. Elsie feels her face flush with heat. Charles breathing increases and his heart is ringing in his ears. He knows that it is now or never. They can continue with their agreed upon business venture or begin a new adventure here, in this cozy cottage.

He asks nothing. She says nothing. He turns the key in the lock and they return to the sleigh and get underway. They ride along in silence for what seems like an eternity.

So much has been left unsaid between them for so long. He has made no declarations. He knows that she understands him. Knows that she must understand what he meant when he suggested a _business proposal_ in his clumsy way. Now he wonders if he has misread her. If a business venture is truly all she wants. He blames himself.

She is elated. His awkward _proposal_ of a joint business venture had thrilled her. She knew what he meant then and what he means now. But she cannot ask him to marry her? Can she? It just isn't done. She looks over to him. Finds him looking crestfallen.

"Mr. Carson," she begins. She has never lacked for confidence and she doesn't now but…. "Charles," she begins again as she places her hand over his. He looks at her, finds tender eyes. He knows that she is about to let him down gently.

"I was presumptuous Mrs. Hughes," he begins to apologize. He halts the horse. They sleigh slides to a stop and he turns to face her. "I was presumptuous to show you the small cottage and I've no right and….."

"Mr. Carson, you've every right," she says grasping his arm. "Every right."

"So you…." he finds the words catch in his throat.

"Yes, I do." she finishes.

xxxx

After they sealed their engagement with a sweet kiss and words of love and devotion, Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes dashed through the snow in their sleigh. They made two stops in the village that day. One to speak with Mr. Travis and the other to the solicitor's office to purchase their little cottage.

**Thank you all for your reviews, reblogs, follows, favorites, etc. They mean the world to me.. You all rock!**


	5. Ebenezer Scrooge - Nanny

Christmas 1924

**Three Days Before Christmas**

The Crawley grandchildren had the run of the house despite the valiant attempts of Nanny to corral them. The expectations of delicious food and sweets and music and the arrival of Father Christmas permeated the air. Miss Sybbie dragged Master George down to the kitchen on more than one occasion where Daisy sat them on counter they have enjoyed cocoa and biscuits. Little George appeared frightened when he saw Mr. Carson enter the kitchen, the butler standing tall and imperious. That is until Mr. Carson extended his hand. George was unsure of what to do until his cousin whispered into his ear and then shyly he reached into the biscuit tin, retrieved one, and then placed it into the butler's giant paw. George waited. The butler took a bite, savored it, and then winked at a relieved young George Crawley.

When Nanny, looking very stern, marched into the kitchen, she asked the children exactly what they thought they were doing. George shoved the last bit of his biscuit into his mouth and wiped a hand across it to whisk away any crumbs (much to Mr. Carson's chagrin; he immediately offered the boy a cloth). With George's mouth presently full of biscuit, Sybbie was left to explain their retreat downstairs she was just about to do so when Mrs. Patmore swept into the kitchen.

"What is the matter here," she asked sharply.

"Master George and Miss Sybbie are not to be downstairs and _they_ know it. Children are to be seen and not heard. They are to stay in their rooms until asked for," Nanny huffed, her face red and angry. She heard Mr. Carson grunt in the background and knew he had a fondness for the children. "I mean to say, that I am sure that you are busy and they are in your way," she softened.

When Mrs. Patmore placed her hands on her hips, Miss Sybbie stifled a giggle. Mr. Carson looked at her sternly and shook his head. Inwardly, he smiled. _Full of mischief that one. Like her mother._ "They are not in the way. In fact they are helping," Mrs. Patmore informed Nanny. Nanny tried to argue her point but Mrs. Patmore brooked no arguments. In the end, Sybbie and George were allowed to stay and help taste test biscuits for Donk's Christmas party. They watched as Nanny marched back upstairs. She would not spoil their getting to taste Daisy's Christmas biscuits.

**Two Days Before Christmas**

Marigold trailed behind her older cousins as they slipped behind the green baize door and down the servants' staircase. Sybbie, being the eldest, tapped lightly on Mr. Carson's door and waited for him to acknowledge them.

"Yes, Miss Sybbie," he called from behind his desk. He watched as George and Marigold peaked out from behind her.

"Carson, may we still come today," she asked sweetly.

"Of course," he answered. "_If_ you are quiet. Sit at the desk and I will fetch the paper." The cousins scurried into the butler's pantry and while Mr. Carson worked on his wine ledgers, Sybbie and George sat at his small desk _writing_ Christmas cards while Marigold _drew_ a picture of a Christmas tree. The children chatted amiably with Mr. Carson about Donk's new puppy, Tut, who had already made his presence known downstairs when he left a puddle near the back door. Soon, Mr. Carson found himself humming a cheerful tune and listening to the children chatting among themselves. Sybbie and George talked of wishing for snow for Christmas and Marigold mumbled about her mummy. After a while, Miss Sybbie prevailed upon Mr. Carson to help her properly form her letters and George, confident that his letters where correctly formed, inquired after an envelope for his card.

Just as Mr. Carson was helping Sybbie and George to neatly fold and place their cards into the small white envelopes they had asked after, he looked up to see Nanny standing in the doorway. Her countenance thunderous. The children looked to Nanny and then to the butler.

"How may I help?"

"Children come along," Nanny demanded. The children looked to Carson as he straightened to his fullest, imposing height.

"The children are just finishing up," Mr. Carson replied imperiously. "I shall have Andy bring them up when they have completed their cards." Nanny inquired as to what type of cards could such young children be writing. When Mr. Carson told her that they were writing Christmas cards, she tsked and dismissed their efforts. "I do hope that you are not stifling the desire of the children to be creative," Mr. Carson asked authoritatively. "I should _hate_ to report that to Lady Mary, Lady Edith, or Mr. Branson."

"No, Mr. Carson. I did not mean to suggest that at all," Nanny demurred. "Please have Andy bring them to the nursery when they are finished." The children watched as she left Mr. Carson's pantry and made her way upstairs.

**Christmas Eve**

The day before Christmas was particularly busy for the downstairs staff but, Mrs. Hughes had promised and she found time to help the children with their request. Usually neat and tidy, her sitting room was decidedly untidy as the cousins scattered strips of paper and ribbon along the table and the floor. As she cut the paper and ribbon for them, Mrs. Hughes told the children stories of their mothers when they were young ladies. George guffawed wildly when he learned of his mother's attempt to put a frog in Aunt Edith's bed. Sybbie listened with intensity as Mrs. Hughes told of Lady Sybil's work as a nurse during the war. And little Marigold, well, she wasn't certain of what to tell Marigold but she, took her into her lap and told her the story of an ugly duckling that turned into a beautiful swan.

Suddenly, the children hid the presents behind their backs when they saw the figure in the doorway. Nanny was red-faced and furious. It was the third day in a row that they had disobeyed and sneaked downstairs.

"What is this!" she bristled. "Presents! You are going to spoil them."

Mrs. Hughes stood and gently set Marigold down in a nearby chair. She walked over to Nanny and ushered her into the corridor. "Would you please keep your voice down. There is no need for shouting," Mrs. Hughes insisted.

"Mrs. Hughes, you may run the household but you have no jurisdiction over me. So, if you would allow me….."

"…you are quite right," Mrs. Hughes interjected, "I do not have jurisdiction over you however, the children have done nothing wrong. I'll have Andy bring them upstairs when they've finished." Nanny began to protest but Mrs. Hughes was having none of it. "I do not think that Her Ladyship would find it comforting to be made aware of the fact that I "run this house" as you say and you cannot manage three small children." The children watched as Nanny ambled away upstairs.

**Christmas Day**

While the family breakfasted on their own, Nanny began to tidy the nursery. As she did so she found a basket near the door with a note attached to it that simply read Happy Christmas. As she lifted the basket and began to look through the contents, tears filled her eyes. She first saw a scribbled series of lines that was obviously an almost two year old's attempt to draw a Christmas Tree. Next, she found two Christmas cards. One illegible and the other slightly more legible, at least she could make out the letters S-Y-B-B-I-E. She found a tin of biscuits and three wrapped presents. A toy tea set, a cloth doll, and a toy soldier. As she looked over the three gifts that the children had given her, she felt ashamed at her behavior toward them. She had scolded them for their disobedience. Had felt it wrong for them to be below stairs. She was trying to teach them the rules. The proper way to behave for their station in life. However, she realized it was they who had taught her the lessons of life – the lessons of the season: humility, selflessness, and love.


	6. Faith

Very Early December 1924

A/N: This is part one of two. There are Season 5 spoilers so beware. I apologize for the delay.

The small book sits near the edge of his desk. It has occupied the same place for years. She smiles as he is such as creature of habit. She has her own copy though hers is safely tucked away on her bedside table. It is easy for her to find. She takes it every night searching for answers, hoping that she will find some. Some understanding for why they must endure such suffering. What have they done to deserve it, her girl and Mr. Bates? What lesson are they to be taught? Had they not persevered enough? She brushes her hand across the book. Traces the embossed cross with a finger, feels slightly ashamed that she is angry. Everything she has been taught fills her mind, telling her to be still, quiet. To listen and to trust.

She sits in his chair; flips open the cover and thumbs through the pages to a familiar passage. Smiles when she sees that he has marked it. '_And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose_.' She pauses, studies the words, is quiet. Offers up a silent prayer and then closes the book. Pats the cover, smoothing it with her hand. She wonders how many times _he _has sought solace in that same verse.

"You've spoken to them, then?" he asks quietly from the doorway.

"Yes," she replied quietly, tears filling her eyes. She stands moves away from his desk. Lip pulled between her teeth, she crosses her arms, hugging herself. He crosses the room in a quick stride, catches her as she begins to sway. She leans into him, lets him hold her upright, lets him be her strength. He spreads a broad hand across her back, another against the back of her head. His chin rests on the top of her head as he lets her cry.

"I don't understand Mr. Carson," she whimpers. At first, he is put off. She sounds so unlike herself; so weak, so unsteady. Nevertheless, he recovers and hopes that he has done nothing to give away his momentary unease. He never wants to hurt her. She has hurt enough.

"Tell me," he encourages her quietly. He thinks that perhaps she will want to sit by the fire, to talk things through but, she doesn't move. She holds tightly to him and he realizes that her comfort, comforting her, is his responsibility now. A responsibility he wants. One he covets.

She tells him of how unfair it is that Anna and John are seemingly never allowed happiness. That every moment of happiness is followed by three more of misery. Of how Anna has never done anything to deserve it. Nothing. At. All. How it must be some cosmic joke. How it is Christmas and they should be home. Together. Planning for the future. (Planning for bairns.) Then she tells him that she is ashamed of herself for her doubt. For questioning how God could be so very cruel to her girl, when all she had ever done was right and good. For allowing wrong doers to walk free while Anna sat in jail for a crime she did not commit.

And then she pulls away from him. Looks up to him through watering, red-rimmed eyes, her face streaked with tears and makes a final confession. She tells him that she feels ashamed to be so happy (with him) while Anna is so miserable and suffering an uncertain fate. He looks down into her sincere, loving eyes and wants to erase any shame from her mind. He reaches into his pocket to retrieve his handkerchief. Uses it to wipe her eyes, her cheeks. Tenderly kisses her forehead.

"Mrs. Hughes," he begins tenderly "My mother's father was a vicar and I remember one of his treasured verses in times of trouble. '_The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles_.' I have confidence that Anna will be exonerated. We must be patient."

"You must think me a silly woman, Mr. Carson," she tries to smile.

"That is very far from what I think," he replies in a whisper. They look at each other for a long moment before they hear a familiar voice.

"Ah, there you are," calls Mrs. Patmore from the doorway.

**TBC…** **A little angst here but we will continue in a Christmas-y theme in the next chapter. I apologize for not having responded to the last round of reviews but I have read and coveted each and every one.** **Thank you so very much. If you are inclined let me know what you think of this one. The next chapter will deal with the candlelit dinner scene from the Christmas trailer. **


	7. God and Sinners Reconciled

**G**od and Sinners Reconciled…

**A/N: Ok, so….a little change of plans…..this is still part two of the previous chapter, just taking a different trajectory….I hope that you don't mind. **

Christmas is quickly approaching and Mr. Barrow is pulling double duty, acting as under-butler and part-time valet to His Lordship. He is trying to turn over a new leaf, trying to right a few wrongs, to help a man when he is down as Miss Baxter has done for him. Mr. Bates is up in London, working tirelessly to free Anna. His Lordship has told him to go, given him the time to do so, and the resources of Mr. Murray (though Mr. Bates knows that he is likely to prove Anna's innocence on his own). Mr. Barrow has hated Mr. Bates for so long, for so many reasons. Hate bred from envy. Envious of his taking the position of head valet. But more than that, envious that Mr. Bates, a troubled man, a drunkard and a thief, found home and happiness with someone he loves and who loves him. Mr. Barrow envies the man who has what he cannot have. What he fools himself into thinking that he might have had with Jimmy. Jimmy who never writes, who never sends as much as a card.

Mr. Barrow sits, a cigarette cradled between two fingers, and he reflects upon his years at Downton. It is Christmas and the servants' hall is decorated with holly, ivy, and mistletoe. A Christmas tree stands in the corner, decorated with paper garland and shiny glass ornaments that Mrs. Hughes purchased in the village. He watches the hall boys and the young maids, thinks of how they are just starting out. How young they are. How young he was when he came to Downton. How Sarah O'Brien had used him (and he her) to do evil and how Mrs. Hughes and Anna, whose place is conspicuously empty, showed him only good.

Mrs. Hughes enters and they all stand for her but she motions for them to sit. It is Mr. Barrow that she has come to see. She smiles and asks him if he would join her for tea in her sitting room. He is gentler, easier these days, returns her smile, and follows her.

xxxxx

He is a bit nervous, off-kilter. She has entertained others in her sitting room before: Anna, Mr. Bates, and Mrs. Patmore. Always Mr. Carson. But she has never invited him to take tea with her. In all his years at Downton, he has ever only been in her sitting room to announce something or someone or when he needed to seek her council. Never to simply enjoy her company. He wonders what Mr. Carson will think.

"Mr. Barrow," she begins earnestly handing him a cup of steaming tea "How are you? You are looking much better."

He smiles and shyly looks down into his cup, takes a sip. "I am much better, thank you Mrs. Hughes," he replies brightly, looking back up.

"I'm glad of it," she reassures him. He wants to respond with a sharp remark, as is his usual custom but he refrain. He knows that she is sincere or she would not have said it. "Mr. Barrow, I want to say that I appreciate what you've done, what you're doing."

"What do you mean?" he asks.

She knows that he knows what she means. But he is a man and like all men, he needs to hear praise spoken aloud. And if that is what he needs she will say it. He is one of her children like all the others. Perhaps the mischievous one. The one who is demanding, who snipes at his siblings in an attempt for attention. Who cries out and needs comforting. And to be honest, she's been tired. Too tired to deal much with him. She's left it to Miss Baxter to deal with. But she is making amends now.

"I know that you've taken on extra work so that Mr. Bates can be in London helping to free Anna," she replies. She pauses a moment and catches his gaze. Wants him to understand that she is sincere, that this sentiment is heartfelt, mother to son. "It is very good of you to do it without argument or being asked. Your kindness is appreciated, Thomas," she adds softly. He knows that the use of his Christian name carries importance. They are not speaking as employees of His Lordship here but something more intimate. Friends? Perhaps not that. But her praise means more to him than he would admit.

She watches as his face lights up. For a moment, she sees the young man that came to Downton. The tall, dark haired lad with ambition and good manners. The troubled lad who craved a kind word but soon learned to hide his kind heart behind snide remarks and contemptuousness. He thanks her and they carry on in conversation for a long few moments. Little does he know that she has needed their little chinwag as much as he has. It has done her good to see that he is maturing, that this Christmas season has been about something more than Anna's imprisonment. That people can change, to some degree, think of others and less of themselves.

_**So, Charles was absent in this one, but we finish with Elsie's crisis of faith and in humanity being restored a bit this Christmas season with this chapter. Back to Charles and Elsie with the next one. I can see now that I will not be able to complete all the alphabet prompts (it was wishful thinking) though I will attempt to give it the old college try. I am behind on replying to reviews but am working on that. I appreciate your patience. If you are inclined, please let me know what you think of this one. **_


	8. Home

A/N: Part of this stems from a conversation from the PBS Q&A with the cast and audience that aired on livestream on Dec 9th. The question was asked "True or False: Mr. Carson should propose to Mrs. Hughes?" If you have not seen the video, it can be found on YouTube.

1925

He sits by the fire, comfortable in his chair, dressed in his pajamas, slippers, his reading glasses on. He's reading through Christmas cards and various invitations they've received. Telling her the wishes conveyed in each one. Holds them up for her to see the pretty wintry scenes on them. He runs the blade of the letter opener under the flap of the envelope, lifts the card out. Opens it. Out falls a picture of her niece. His niece now, she corrects him. He smiles and watches her as she hangs the glass ornaments that they bought in London. He lays the card aside, thinks that she may want to read it privately. He watches as she stretches and bends and carefully places the ornaments on their tree. Their first Christmas tree.

She reaches into the box searching for just the right ornament for just the right spot, her eye always discerning. As she finds just the right spot, she smiles and thinks of her husband. Thinks of how a year ago they were discussing a _business venture_. How bumbling he had been in his _proposal_ of it. She laughs quietly to herself. He looks up from the stack of cards he is sorting, asks her what she finds funny. Nothing, she replies. "I'm just happy." And she is happy. In their snug little cottage. With him. Happier than she ever thought that she could be.

He watches her again. Finds that he does a lot of that. He cannot help himself. Seems everyone knew that he was in love with her long before he knew it himself. _Business venture?_ He shook his head. How did she put up with him? He watches her, hair plaited hanging over her shoulder, wearing her dressing gown, bare feet. His mind flies back to the first time he saw her bare feet and ankles. When she asked him to hold her hand. To keep him steady.

He puts the cards in a neat stack on the table beside his chair and moves to help her. She is ready for the angel to be placed atop the tree. He takes it from her, reaches up, and carefully sits the blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel atop their tree. He steps back, eyes it to make sure that it is straight and satisfied with his work looks to her. He notices the mist over her eyes.

"Hey now, what's this," he asks softly as he wraps his arms around her.

She feels a bit silly. A woman in her sixth decade misty-eyed over a Christmas tree but there is nothing for it. Yet, she knows it isn't Christmas, the tree, or the presents they bought. A tear falls as she looks up at him, sees in his eyes what she feels. That this is almost too much. Too perfect. Them here. Together. Married and happy, living in their cottage. Expectations of companionship and happily discovered passion and intimacy.

He needs no explanation. He knows. He feels it too. She reaches up to caress his face and he leans into her hand. He closes his eyes, thankful that he has married this woman. That she stitched up his heart and then waited until he could open it bare to her. He kisses her palm and hear her sigh.

"Do you remember Christmas Eve last year?" she asks him.

He opens his eyes slowly and smiles. "Yes," he says with a laugh.

"An appropriate answer," she replies, a smile in her voice.

He draws her closer, traces her cheekbone with his thumb. "You proposed to me." For that, he received a swift swat to his chest and an _I never_. "But you did, Mrs. Hughes. You distinctly asked me to marry you. A man doesn't forget that type of thing."

"I simply said that you had forgotten one important aspect of our retirement plan," she teased. "And that being a respectable woman I expected a marriage proposal. And I asked if you were agreeable to that."

"Ah, so I had. I was so anxious about our _business venture_ that I forgot to ask you the most important question concerning it."

She leaned up to kiss him. "Well, I suppose that I am lucky that you said yes!"

Thank you all so much for the reblogs on Tumblr, favorites, reviews, follows, etc. If you have a moment please let me know what you think.


	9. Icicles

Icicles

A/N: How excited are we over the 3 seconds of Carson and Hughes in the new CS trailer?! With that said, WARNING! This demanded to be written. It has a major….well, a major character…..well, you know. Read at your own risk although please do not let this deter you.

Christmas Day, 1940

The fire is crackling and popping, keeping the sitting room cozy on a winter's day, which is like most others except that it is Christmas and there is a blanket of snow on the ground. The Christmas tree stands decorated, a few new ornaments that Lady Mary has sent from London scattered in with many old ones hang from its branches. Some stable boys from the Abbey kindly delivered a beautiful tree again this year. Lady Mary has made sure that a nicely shaped spruce has been delivered every year since Charles hit the milestone year of seventy-five and found himself no longer able to drag one inside the house on his own. Elsie has decorated the sitting room with sprigs of holly and ivy, nothing very elaborate, just enough to say that she has done it. She is getting on and she hasn't the energy nor the inclination to do all the decorating that she has in past years. She hasn't hung the mistletoe this year; found she didn't wish to bother with making the kissing bough as she had in years past.

Her reading glasses sit beside his paperknife on the table near his chair. The Christmas cards are spread across a table; she has read them to him, each and every one. There are cards from friends and family. Her nieces and nephews and their children now grown with children of their own have sent cards and pictures of their families. Gwen has written and sent word of her growing family so have others that were part of their family at the Abbey. Alfred included a picture of his new babies, twin boys called Alastair and Ian. Mr. and Mrs. Bates card held only a new picture of themselves; just a man and his wife. Their little hotel is not far and she sees them often; in fact, they will pay the cottage a visit today just as they always do on Christmas Day.

She has baked the Christmas turkey, wrapped it with bacon rashers, and prepared all of the trimmings for a fine Christmas day luncheon with her friends – her family. The table is set to precision as it is every year. For years, Charles talked of standards of the house, the Abbey, and when they married, it was no less true for the cottage. Even a small house should set an example. _Where's the style, Mrs. Hughes? Where's the show?_

While she awaits the guests, she stands looking out the back window. The large window was one of the things that attracted them to this cottage. To sit in the comfort of their sitting room and look out onto the back garden. She stands near the window, watching the snowflakes drift slowly to the ground joining the others that had already fallen, and her gazes lingers on the path that hasn't been cleared yet.

"I should clear that you know," he says softly as she feels his arms wrap around her.

"You know that you cannot do that. One of the stable boys has to do that now," she gently reminds him.

"Hmmm," he concedes as he tightens his grip on her. "The cottage looks lovely. But of course, it would. You've always had excellent taste."

"Flatterer," she laughs just a little. Her gaze is drawn to the tapering spear of an icicle hanging from the eave of the cottage. She thinks of how something can be so beautiful, yet fragile. It reminds her of life, seeming to hang delicately in the balance and of memories frozen in time. _The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that's all there is._

She thinks that she can almost feel his breath on her neck. "And you, you my girl, are as lovely as the day we met." He had said it to her many times and meant it, but tears fill her eyes.

"I'm hardly a girl," she replies quietly.

"You're my girl."

With that, she feels a hot tear roll down her cheek. Whenever, he was like this she felt weak kneed and heady with love for him. No matter how old they had gotten, that phrase, a compliment, said low, seductively in her ear made her feel like the Housekeeper again. All knots in her stomach, hot with desire, and flush with love, like the Christmas he had asked her to marry him. He had looked as he were going to cry and she thought that she would drop the two cups of punch she was holding had he not thought to take them from her. He looked as if he actually thought she would refuse him. Daft man.

She thinks that he must catch her reflection in the glass and notice that sad look that passes over her face, drawn and tired, tracked with the lone tear. The silver in her hair quite pronounced now, almost all traces of youth now gone. She thinks that she has worried him when he asks, "What's wrong Elsie? Why are you so sad?"

She sighs deeply. "Oh, Charles. Don't you know? You must know."

At that moment, the icicle that she has been watching breaks free and shatters into pieces on the ground. In an instant, the spell is broken. She is shaken from her thoughts by knocking at the front door and comes to realize that the arms wrapped around her are her own. That Charles hadn't been there with her. That he hadn't been with her for months. She hears another knock at the door and she wipes her eyes, her cheek, because she doesn't want them to see that she's been crying. Charles would not have wanted that.

She smoothes her skirt, a nervous habit, and takes a steadying breath pulling on every reserve that she has. She summons the housekeeper as she strides toward the door, places a cool hand on the knob, and turns it.

"Happy Christmas, Anna. John. Please, come in."

**I know. I know. But it demanded to be written. Thank you for reading it and if you are inclined please, please leave a review. I am so very sorry for not responding to the last round of reviews. It has been finals week at school and I have been grading exams and calculating grades (and dealing with anxious students). Now exams are over and I will be getting around to responding to those lovely reviews. Thank you for each and every one of them. They mean the world to me.**


	10. Letters

**A/N: Back to our AU for a bit. Plus, I am skipping ahead in the alphabet as I will not be able to finish all 26 letters by Christmas. This is Christmas 1898. And a different take on Jim Carter's favorite scene (the one with Carson and Mrs. Hughes discussing the story of Lady Mary wishing to run away, steal the silver, and the six pence) If you do not remember the AU, go back to Chapter 3, "Children."**

Three weeks before Christmas 1898

For Elsie Carson Christmastime at Downton's village post office was busy. She found herself twice as busy as usual dealing with extra parcels, letters, and Christmas cards. The children of the village posted letters to Father Christmas and their parents sent extra letters to their families and friends. The servants who worked at the Abbey all sent letters home to parents and relatives and the Abbey received dozens of extra parcels and Christmas cards during the season. Though she was extremely busy, she was very happy. As she sorted the post and filled the cubbies, she smiled. She looked over her shoulder to find her daughter sleeping quietly in the cot beside her desk. Pink complexion, sparse dark hair, dark eyelashes, a dimple in her chin like her father, Elsie was smitten with her little bairn. The daughter that she thought they would never have. She often found herself staring at the child, watching her breathe, mesmerized that God had entrusted Charles and her with such a precious gift. And Charles. Never had a man been more taken with a child than Charles Carson was with his daughter. At first afraid of holding her, he soon brought her to their bed every chance he could, laid her in between them. He held them both close; called them his girls. Elsie was so in her lost in her thoughts that she failed to hear the bell on counter behind her ringing.

Then the bell rang louder, shaking Elsie from her thoughts. She turned to find a young, well-dressed girl standing in before her. "How may I help?"

"I need to post these letters, please," a little raven-haired girl an imperious voice said matter-of-factly.

Elsie immediately recognized the girl but was surprised to find her in the village, much less in the post office. "And where is your mother, miss?" she asked.

Ignoring the question, the little girl pressed on with her case. "You are Mrs. Carson, the Post Mistress? Can you help me? I need to post these letters. One is to my Grandmamma in America. I am running away from home and I wish to tell her that I am coming. The other is to Father Christmas so that he knows where I may be found," the little girl, who could have been no more than six or seven years old, said defiantly.

Elsie bit her lip to keep from reprimanding the girl for her impertinence but it would not do to reprimand _this_ young lady. "Yes, I am Mrs. Carson. Let me see your letters." The girl passed her letters to Elsie and immediately Elsie realized that there were no envelopes. "Well, you will need envelopes. Why don't you come behind the desk? I will get envelopes and you can fill them out." The girl did as Elsie instructed her and Elsie sat her at the desk and placed two envelopes in front of her. She indicated that Father Christmas and the North Pole was sufficient address and assured the girl that it would arrive in time for Christmas. Mary wrote 'Grandmamma' and 'America' on the other.

"And why have you decided to run away from home?" Elsie asked as she placed the letters into the envelopes and sealed them.

The little girl set her jaw, lifting it slightly. "Because my parents do not pay attention to me and I hate my sister."

Elsie nodded as she placed the letters in the stack with all of the others. She turned back to the girl who looked a little less confident than a moment earlier. "Now why would you say that?"

"Is this your baby?" the girl asked, again ignoring a question that she did not wish to answer.

"Yes, she is."

"What is her name?"

"Mary Elspeth."

"Mary, like me," the little girl surmised as a smile passed across her lips. "She is very beautiful." The elder Mary looked to Elsie, a question in her eyes. With a nod of approval, Elsie lifted the baby and carefully placed her into the child's eager arms. Mary cradled the baby close, careful to hold her tightly, fully aware of the trust that Mrs. Carson had placed in her. "She's very little," Mary said quietly as she smoothed her hand across the top of the baby's head.

"Yes. She was born last May."

"This is her first Christmas," Mary said, more than asked. Elsie answered with a hum. Mary thought for a moment. "Mama and Papa have forgotten about me. Sybil is very pretty and very sweet and she is the baby. Though not as little a baby as this Mary. Sybil is three. Everyone loves her. And Edith, well, she is very mean and we hate each other." Mary looked down at the little baby in her arms, and then placed a kiss to her forehead.

"So, you're feeling left out?" Elsie asked sympathetically.

"They won't miss me if I am gone," Mary said rebelliously. She then turned a steely gaze on Elsie. "So, if you could help me, please."

xxxxx

"Mr. Carson, this is Lady Mary Crawley," Elsie began "she is setting out on her own and will need some supplies. She is traveling to America. She tells me that her Grandmamma lives there." She dared a wink over Lady Mary's shoulder. "She hasn't any money but she does have a couple of silver candlesticks in her bag that she is willing to trade for the things that she needs."

Charles rubbed the back of his neck, thought for a moment, and finally replied, "Well, let us see them."

Mary reached into her bag and tugged out first one and then a second elaborate silver candlestick. She handed them both to Charles who placed them on the counter in front of them. He looked them over very carefully, considering the intricateness of design and the weight of them. He pursed his lips in contemplation and then looked to Lady Mary who though trying very hard to appear confident, seemed worried. Charles then looked to Elsie who nodded and smiled slightly.

"What items do you require for your journey?" Charles asked seriously, as he took a notepad and pencil from his shirt pocket and prepared to make a list of the items she requested.

The little girl smiled, relieved that the tall, imposing shopkeeper was willing to help her. She squared her shoulders and began to rattle off her list. For her train ride, she would require: peppermint sticks, a blanket, a teddy bear, and a tin of chocolate biscuits Elsie reminded Charles that Lady Mary would need a valise, at least three dresses, two pairs of shoes, some undergarments, and a hat. Of course, she would need help purchasing a train ticket to London, another to Liverpool, and then a passage aboard a ship bound for America. She also needed cash for food and other things that might come up. Mary's smile widened with glee that Mr. and Mrs. Carson were so willing to help her escape Downton for America.

Charles made to gather all of the items that Mary required and placed them on the counter near a very large looking machine. Mary had not seen a machine like it before. She inquired what it was and was told that it was a cash register that added the cost of her purchases. Once Charles added all of the items on the counter, he frowned. He looked to Elsie and shook his head.

"I'm sorry milady," he said shifting his gaze to Mary, "it seems that there will not be enough money left for your train fare nor your ship passage."

Elsie saw the girl's shoulders sag and her smile fade. She reached down and put a hand on the girl's shoulder. Charles moved from behind the counter and knelt down in front of her. He took her tiny hands in his giant ones. He watched as her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall.

"Milady, you are very courageous but not quite ready to start out on your own. One day you will be ready and I have every confidence that you will do very well for yourself. Now, if you were my little girl, I would be very sad if you ran away. Especially at Christmastime. Just as I love my Mary very much, your Mama and Papa love you. What say I walk you home?" Mary sniffed back her tears and Charles gave her a hug. Elsie wrapped up the candlesticks and placed them in Mary's bag. She placed several peppermint sticks in a paper sack and handed them to girl, giving her a hug. Mary thanked Elsie and asked if she could give the baby a hug, which she did.

xxxxx

Charles walked Lady Mary Crawley back to the Abbey that day returning her to the safe embrace of her mother. Mrs. Crawley thanked Mr. Carson for his trouble and before he left, Mary gave him one final embrace. On Christmas Eve, a footman from the Abbey arrived at the shop with a delivery addressed to the Carson family. Charles and Elsie opened the package to find a Christmas card addressed to them from Robert and Cora Crawley and an engraved silver baby rattle for Mary that read: from Mary Crawley to Mary Carson Happy First Christmas.

**Thank you for your reblogs, reviews, favorites, and follows. If you are inclined, please let me know what you think.**


	11. Please Come Home For Christmas

Please Come Home For Christmas –

A/N: Inspired by the song, the Eagles rendition.

The last of the family retired to bed a half hour ago and now her maids are in the library and the great hall, clearing away the mess, sweeping carpets so that no one is awakened by the noise of the vacuum. His footman and hallboys are returning chairs, sofas, and tables to their rightful places. In another hour everything will look as normal and as if nothing at all had taken place. He takes pride in their work, in the work of those whom they have trained. It is now a few moments before Christmas morning and he finally takes a moment for himself. Sinking into his rocking chair, he sips at a warm cup of tea, and listens to the low hum of the few remaining staff in the servants' hall. He will send them up as soon as their tasks are finished and will give an extra hour in the morning to sleep in.

He is tired but restless and absentmindedly fidgets with the bottom of his waistcoat, as he is apt to do when he is nervous or worried. He finds himself staring across the room at nothing in particular. He stands up, stretches, and places the cup and saucer on his desk. He reaches for the letter that rests securely inside his coat pocket just next to his heart, and holds it for a moment before running his finger under the flap of the envelope and pulling the letter from inside it. His eyes run over the words that are inscribed on the page in the elegant script that is uniquely hers.

She has written of the grief of her sister and her sister's family. The sudden passing of her brother-in-law right at Christmastime has certainly been a shock. She debated on going what with the business of the holiday season, but Lady Grantham insisted. Mr. Carson told her to go, that he and Mrs. Patmore and Madge could pull everything together in her absence. Her departure has meant extra work for him, but it is just as well as he has needed a distraction. He runs his finger over the passage at the bottom of the page. _I hope to be home by Christmas and if not by Christmas by New Year's Eve_.

He folds the letter and places it back into the envelope, folds the flap down and places it back into his pocket. He has carried it there since it arrived five days ago. He has not heard anything from her since – assumes that she is busy helping to organize things and to support her sister. He feels guilty for missing her, for wishing that she is here with him instead. He feels illogical and if there is one thing that Charles Carson is not is illogical. He doesn't like it, this feeling that he has but she has created in him. This lack of control.

He glances over the few Christmas cards that she tacked to his board. One from a butler friend of his in London, another from a butler friend in York, and another from a wine vendor whom he had known for years. Another few from some friends in the village. Well thought of? Yes. Respected and esteemed? Yes. Many close friends? No, he thought. Not many. His closest friend was in Lytham St. Anne's and she would likely not be home for Christmas.

He moves next door to her sitting room, empty, only a small lamp still left on. In her absence, Madge is using it to coordinate the household. It has been jarring for him to see the young woman there sitting in her swivel chair, at her desk, and using her things. He decides to switch off the lamp so he moves into the room and glances around. He believes that he can still catch a trace of rosewater, of Elsie. He is being illogical he thinks. He looks about the room, her room, and notices all of the Christmas cards that she has received. There are cards from former housemaids, footmen, hall boys, women in the village, housekeepers that she knows. Well thought of? Yes. Well respected? Yes. Well loved? Yes. Yes, he thinks. Well loved.

Her room is now in darkness and he closes the door behind him. He touches his waistcoat and retreats to his pantry. A few moments of solitude and then he will go up. Change into his pajamas; crawl into bed, and pray for her safe return. Just as he loosens his tie a bit, he hears the village church bells pealing and his heart sinks. Reality sets in. It is Christmas morning and she is not coming home; has not been able to make the last train. Her sister has needed her more than he has. And why should she have hurried home to him?

He hears the servants' hall go quiet and is thankful. Mrs. Patmore has sent them to bed and now he can collect his thoughts. Later, he will preside over Christmas luncheon as a _father_ would. He will watch _their_ children break open their cracker, tell silly jokes, put on their paper hats, tuck into a delicious Christmas feast. They will all be exceedingly happy and not notice the unhappy butler at the end of the table. Their _mother_ will be missing, her chair empty. He balls his fists in frustration.

"How dare you think of her that way Charles Carson?" he asks himself aloud. He takes the letter from his pocket again, holds it in front of him, and stares at it a fair few minutes. "Oh, Elsie," he says softly. "When you get back…"

"When I get back what, Mr. Carson," a voice floats in from his doorway.

His head snaps up and the letter falls from his hand to the floor. He struggles to stand up quickly and smoothes shirt and jacket. "How long have you been standing there?" he asks timidly.

"Long enough to ask how you think of me," she says with a smile. In two steps he moves to her and his breathing is heavy and she thinks that she might see a tear in his eye. "What's wrong Mr. Carson? Cat got your tongue?" she teases. The electricity between them is palpable.

"You're here," he finally manages.

"And wherever would I be?" she asks.

"With your family," he answers softly. He wants to say more. To take her in his arms, pull her close, to tell her that he wants to be her family and her, his.

"My sister has her family, her children, Mr. Carson. And I have family here," she says moving closer to him.

Charles takes a deep breath, licks his lips, and pats his waistcoat. She has given him the opportunity and he will not miss it this time. "What I mean was that when you got back," he pauses and takes a very deep breath, "what I meant was that I mean to tell you that…I want to spend every Christmas with you, Mrs. Hughes, ehm, Elsie. Do you understand?"

He is rewarded with the most brilliant smile that she has to offer him and a soft hand pressed to his cheek. "Does that mean what I think it means, Mr. Carson?"

He nods stiffly. "Yes, it does. Will you do me the honor of becoming Mrs. Carson?"

"I will," she answers happily. He leans in for sweet kiss and Charles Carson was _happy, happy once again_.

Angsty fluff… Thank you for reading, enjoy Text Santa, and have a lovely weekend. Drop me a line if you have the time I love hearing from you all.

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><p>[SG1]<p> 


	12. Twas The Night Before Christmas

**Twas The Night Before Christmas**

**A/N: Back to AU for a little while. This is a two-part story and we've skipped ahead six years. Mary Carson is now six. The AU begins in chapter 3, is revisited in chapter 10, and again here.  
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**Christmas Eve, 1904**

The glow from gas lamps flickered, casting dancing shadows and light across the streets of Downton Village. Her shops closed and lights extinguished, the village's homes were still and even the Dog and Duck was relatively quiet. The streets were not abandoned completely, however, as people from the village and the Abbey made their way to St. Michael's for midnight mass.

Charles hurried Elsie and Mary from the shop, closed the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock. He felt a tug on his trousers and looked down to find his daughter looking up at him with her mother's deep blue eyes, a question hiding behind them. Charles smiled, reached down, and picked her up. Instantly, Mary wrapped her arms around her father's neck and hugged him as tight as a six-year-old girl could. "Thank you Daddy." With one arm wrapped around their daughter, Charles offered his other to her mother and Elsie tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow. Together they walked down the street toward the old stone church, speaking to fellow villagers along the way. Elsie inquired of Mrs. Watkins, who owned the Rose Tea Room. They discussed Mrs. Watkins newest grandchild, a grandson called Thomas. Elsie smiled as she listened to the woman proudly chatter on about the newborn. She hoped that one day she might be the one bragging about a grandchild or two.

They came upon Mr. Molesley and he chatted amiably about his son, Joseph, the one who was training to become a valet. Charles looked to Elsie and she smiled, thankful that they had gone another way.

xxxxxxx

"Just one present, mind," Charles reminded Mary as he handed her a box wrapped in shiny red paper and a green ribbon. Charles smiled broadly as he watched Mary rip into the box and pull back the tissue to uncover a new book. She pulled the book from the box and looked quizzically at her father. Elsie smiled sadly. The book was Charles' choosing and not something that a little girl might expect as a Christmas gift from her parents but Charles had insisted. He had hoped that their girl would develop the love of reading that he and Elsie shared. Elsie noticed that Charles and Mary both looked a bit crestfallen. She knew that Mary had wanted a doll and she knew that Charles never wanted to disappoint Mary.

Elsie took the book from her daughter and looked it over admiringly. "Ummm…" Elsie mused. "Mary, darling, I can remember the first book I received. My father gave me a copy of Wuthering Heights. He was a farmer and believed in practical things but that Christmas, I was about thirteen, he gave me the most impractical thing. It was my favorite Christmas memory, to that time. My very own copy of a favorite book. You are very lucky that your Daddy has given you your very first book and you are only six."

She handed the book back to Mary and the little girl's eyes grew wide as she flipped through the pages of the book looking at the words she could not read, but admiring the pictures she understood. Looking up with bright eyes, she asked her father, "Will you read it to me, Daddy?"

Charles beamed with pride, "Perhaps, your Mummy will help you to change into your nightgown and I will read it before you go to sleep. It is very late and Father Christmas will not visit us until you are fast asleep."

xxxxxx

Elsie settled in next to Charles on the settee, he wrapped an arm around her, and Mary climbed up onto his lap. Mary clung to her favorite blanket and quietly rubbing a well-worn corner of it. Charles opened the book and Elsie helped him to turn the pages as he began to read:

_Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads; And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap…. _

Charles rich baritone lulled his daughter into sleepiness and Mary rested her head upon his shoulder. Elsie closed the book and laid it aside while Charles gathered the little girl in his arms. The little family made their way back to Mary's room and Elsie drew back the bed covers. Charles helped Mary crawl into bed and under the covers. Little hands balled into fists, Mary rubbed her eyes. Charles smoothed the covers and tucked them in around his girl.

"Goodnight, my sweet lass," Charles pressed a kiss into Mary's hair.

"Goodnight Daddy. Please leave Father Christmas some biscuits and brandy. And some carrots for the reindeer. I forgot." Mary mumbled sleepily. Charles promised and made his way into the kitchen to do exactly as she had asked.

Elsie kissed Mary's forehead wishing her Happy Christmas and pleasant dreams of sugar plum fairies dancing. "Mummy?" Mary asked.

"Hmmm"

"Tell Daddy that I liked my book," the little girl requested as she drifted to sleep. Elsie smiled as she stroked her daughter's hair. She marveled at the little girl that lay sleeping before her. The little girl that she thought they might never have.

xxxxx

"You taste of brandy and biscuits," she smiled against his lips. As they lay facing one another, her hand traced over his jaw, his ear, her fingers lovingly combed through the graying locks at his temples. She loved this man more than she could tell him, more than he could ever really know.

"Well, I wanted to make certain that we left out the very best for Father Christmas. I just sampled a bit," he laughed, his belly rumbling close to hers. She hummed merrily against his lips before pulling him a little closer for another kiss.

"She's a trooper, our lass," Elsie remarked as her finger studied the cleft in his chin. "To sit so very still while Mr. Travis went on and on. Even the Crawley girls were beginning to act anxious and I think that the Dowager Countess actually fell asleep once or twice," Elsie laughed softly. Her laugher stilled when she felt Charles hand slide under the hem of her nightgown, trail up her calf and to the back of her thigh. She closed her eyes, worrying her bottom lip as she enjoyed the exquisite warmth of her husband's touch, the gentle strength of his embrace.

Charles trailed his hand down the length of his wife's leg with the back of his fingers and brought it to rest on her hip. He marveled at the sight before him. His wife. All warm flesh and soft. Skin smooth as glass and flawless as the finest porcelain. The satin of her night gown (how proud he was that he had convinced her that she deserved it; to sleep in something she thought impractical) against the freckled skin of her chest. He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, high, regal cheekbones and he gazed lovingly into the deepest of blue eyes; the eyes that first captivated him at the village dance so many years before. He brushed a tendril of hair from her face; dark hair kissed by flame (a trait shared with her Irish grandmother) that seemed to come alive and dance in the firelight.

Elsie slowly opened her eyes to find her husband's darkened, his intentions, his need as clear as her own. She leaned in and began to slip the buttons of his pajama top open. Once she freed all the buttons from their confines, she pushed his shirt open and smoothed her hands across the broadness of his chest. She inhaled a shuttering breath. He drew her close, kissed her slowly, reverently. Elsie Carson had everything that she had ever wanted under the roof of her house. A lovely life in the village, a healthy little girl in the next room, and her man close.

**TBC… The next installment will be posted as part of the Secret Santa exchange. I hope that the recipient approves and that you all do as well. I appreciate you following along and I have really enjoyed writing this little AU world away from the Abbey (something I never thought I would admit). I appreciate those of you who have followed along here, re-blogged on Tumblr, reviewed, favorited, followed, etc. If you are inclined, I'd love to hear from you. Happy Christmas.**


	13. Very Happy Christmas

Very Happy Christmas –

A/N: This can stand alone but is part of our AU continued from Chapter 12. This is part of the Chelsie Christmas Exchange and is dedicated to Dillydally. Happy Christmas.

Christmas Morning, 1904

The sun begins to peak around the curtains and the embers in the fire are low; Elsie Carson lays close to her husband, his head resting on her stomach, his arm slung low around her hip. As she combs her fingers through his curled hair, mussed from her passionate embraces and from sleep, Elsie wonders whether she lays in his embrace or he in in hers before thinking that it does not matter. Thinking that as they lay here, together, the business of marriage is indeed one continuous union. A process of uniting over time in all sorts of ways. They had laid claim to one another years ago, from the moment their eyes locked at the village dance. When he slipped a ring onto her finger and they made promises before God and the church. When their bodies joined in wedded harmony that first glorious night. As they work together side by side every day. No, she thinks, the embrace of husband and wife is a long one. A complex thing. She smoothes her fingertips down along his neck and shoulder, and then traces the path again. Sometimes she wonders if it is wrong, unseemly, for a woman to admire her man so. To admire his form, to love the feel of him under her touch.

Hearing a thud on the floor in the room across the corridor, Elsie smiles contentedly. A moment later little cry of glee; Mary has discovered the contents of the stocking that hangs at the foot of her bed. Elsie reaches across the bed for Charles' pajama top and gently shakes him rousing him from his slumber. Charles looks up to his wife, a sleepy, crooked smile painted across his face. He knows that their little lass will bound into their room any minute excitedly proclaiming that Father Christmas as visited and left presents under the tree. Charles pats his wife's hip, a gesture of "Good Morning" and scoots up in the bed. Taking his shirt, he buttons it and gives Elsie a Christmas morning kiss. Just as Charles has predicted they hear the sound of little feet quickly hurrying toward their door. A rap on the door, a question asked, an answer given, and the door flings open.

"Mummy, Daddy, come, and see," Mary cries, jumping onto the bed, bedsprings squeaking in protest at the little girl's exuberance.

"And just what is it that you wish for us to come and see?" Charles asks with feigned ignorance. This is their tradition. Each year since she was two, Mary bounds into their room, announcing the arrival of Father Christmas while her father and mother pretend unawareness.

"He's been! He's been!" Mary shouts happily, bouncing with all of the enthusiasm, she can muster.

"Who has been?" her mother asks seriously but with mischief in her eyes.

"Father Christmas!" she insists.

Mary barely contains her happiness as she waits for her parents to pull on their dressing gowns, then taking each one by a hand she leads them into the sitting room where she excitedly points to the plate where Charles left the biscuits for Father Christmas. She proudly makes mention that he ate all of Elsie's shortbread biscuits only leaving behind a few crumbs. Of course, he drank _all_ of the brandy and the jolly old elf had taken the carrots for the reindeer. Charles and Elsie look to one another with delight at the enchantment of their little one.

As they gather round the tree, Charles sinks into his comfortable leather chair and Elsie sits on the arm of it, next to him. Mary volunteers to hand out the presents, giving her father one and then her mother. Charles pulls the string and the paper pulls away. He opens the box to reveal two new pens; they are from Elsie. He thanks her, gives her kiss in payment. She opens her gift from him, reveals a lovely broach; tells him that he should not have, that it is too extravagant. He hushes her and tells her that she deserves it and much more.

Meanwhile, gleefully, and with gusto, Mary rips into paper and boxes and with each gift becomes more and more excited. She is gifted with a new dress and a pair of button boots, a set of paper dolls, a pair of ice skates – the lake is frozen solid and her parents have promised to teach her to skate this year – a tea set, a china doll, and a doll pram. Elsie remarks that Mary must have been a very good girl for Father Christmas to have left so _many_ gifts for her this year. Charles coughs under his breath, and remarks that yes, Mary has been a very good girl indeed. Mary cannot help but to be wreathed in smiles.

xxxxx

Elsie listens from the kitchen as Charles and Mary busy themselves around the table. Since Mary turned four, it has become their tradition that she helps her father prepare the table for Christmas luncheon. While Elsie readies the food, they lay the linens, the plates, the candlesticks, and spoons, knives, and forks. They are expecting guests this year. Elsie's mother is arriving any minute (her father dead long ago) and a cousin of Charles' is walking up from a cottage not far away.

"Daddy, what was your favorite Christmas present," Mary asks as she placed a spoon near her mother's plate.

"Well, let me think," Charles said, coming behind her placing a knife next to Elsie's spoon. He hazards a glance into the kitchen catching his wife's eye; they exchange smiles. "A dress, a bonnet, and a pair of booties," he finishes very seriously.

Mary turns to her father, her mouth hanging open in a very unladylike fashion. "A dress!" she exclaims, "Daddies don't wear dresses and bonnets." Charles thinks he hears a giggle from the kitchen and he looks up to see Elsie's back to him, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Um, no," he clears his throat, "but their little girls do." Mary looks at him in confusion. He motions for her to continue with her duties as he explains. "You see, when Mummy found out that you were going to be born, she made the most wonderful dress, bonnet, and booties for you. At Christmastime, she put those things in a box and gave them to me as a gift. She was letting me know that a little baby was going to be born to us."

Mary places the last spoon on the crisp, white tablecloth and turns to look at her father. "You mean like the angel told Joseph that baby Jesus was going to be born?" she asks very seriously.

Charles laughs at his daughter's innocence. He bends, kneels to meet her on her level. Hugs her tightly, places a kiss to her hair. "Well, not exactly," he began, "but Mummy and I did pray for a little lad or lass. But you know," he says, tapping his finger on the tip of her nose, "I always wished for a little girl that looked like Mummy." He watches as Mary's face lights up; her Daddy always wanted a little lass, not a boy like most Daddies. "We prayed for a very long time. So long, that I thought we might never have a child." Charles pauses, catches Elsie's eye in the kitchen. She smiles a watery smile, her eyes covered in a misty haze. He speaks to Mary while watching Elsie. "So when the doctor told Mummy that you were going to be born, it was a miracle. God had heard our prayer and sent you to be our very own angel," he finishes, watching tears fall from Elsie's eyes and her hand fly to mouth to suppress her cries. He smoothes his hand over Mary's cheek and then sends her on her way to play with her toys and makes his way into the kitchen.

"Elsie, why are you crying? Have I upset you?" he asks. Her back is to him, her hands clutching the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. She shakes her head but cannot find the words to speak. He wraps his arms around her waist and she leans back into his embrace. Later, when games have been played and Charles' cousin has returned home, her mother and Mary have gone to bed, she will tell him that the eloquence of his explanation to their daughter moved her to tears and rendered her speechlessness. That this reserved Englishman, opened his heart to their daughter, laid it bare, that he called her a miracle, an angel, means more to her than any broach he could buy her. That she will remember this moment as her favorite Christmas memory her whole life long.

Happiest of Christmases to everyone.


End file.
